


In Focus

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Chris Pine looks too cute in glasses, M/M, did I mention the glasses?, glasses porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	In Focus

For the Kirk/McCoy kink meme, [](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/profile)[**buckleup_meme**](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/)   (OMG, you should visit and prompt, ANON is completely allowed, and while it's small, the fills so far, they are GLORIOUS), for the following prompt:

_ Chris Pine without glasses or contact lenses is a natural disaster waiting to happen. Karl gets tricked by the rest of the cast into taking him home and making sure Chris doesn't accidentally kill himself. Chris uses this as an excuse to touch Karl as much as possible, something that he has wanted to do for ages but didn't dare to. Sexy times ensue (bottom!Chris). _

NC-17 for smutty man-sex, language, Zach and Zoe mean prankishness and oh-- glasses porn.  Lots of that.

\----

(So, I twisted the prompt a bit with the cast trickery, OP, hope you don’t mind—but I think you will like the results.)

He first heard, offstage right, rather than learned secondhand, the calamity that was Chris Pine without his glasses.

“Goddamint, ow, fuck, Jesus Christ!” Followed, of course, by what sounded like a ton of plywood falling simultaneously. When Karl went to investigate, he found Chris tangled in a forest of canvas and wood, a truly pathetic look on his face. The cast’s chairs might never be the same ever again. Chris’ pout, either.

Zoe popped up behind Karl’s shoulder, snickering loudly, and Karl turned to look. Zach wasn’t that far behind-- his smirk was just evil. He was clearly wearing his contacts. “It’s always fun to switch Zach’s glasses with Chris’ and watch the mayhem ensue. He gets about three steps before he realizes the prescription is off, and by then it’s too late.”

Karl turned back and looked at the way Chris’ ankle was twisted up the wrong way in one of the chairs, the way he was biting his lip and not laughing at all.

“I think it’s a cunt trick to pull,” Karl said, then strode forward, rubbing his eyes. His contacts were a bit dry today, the damned LA air. So fucking arid, not like New Zealand at all. “Go get him his glasses,” he growled over his shoulder.

By the time he got there, Chris had removed the offending eyewear, tucked them onto the front of his shirt, and squinting, started to heave the chairs away from himself. All that was left for Karl to help with were the two chairs in which Chris’ feet were entangled, including the one in which his ankle was trapped. Chris, who hadn’t heard Karl’s exchange with the pranksters, turned red and mumbled “I’ve got it, don’t worry,” extricating himself with a hiss, before standing more quickly than Karl ever would. A contrite-looking Zach arrived then, Chris’ real glasses in hand. Stupid kids and their ugly black glasses. He should convince Chris to get some respectable wire frames or something distinctive. Zach, meantime, looked worried that Karl might punch him or something. He should. He might. If J.J. wasn’t around, lurking, most likely.

“How’s your ankle?” Karl asked, but Chris, putting on his own glasses, wouldn’t look at him as he said he was fine. He handed Zach back his glasses and walked, limpless but slow, off of the set.

Despite his dignified exit, however, he was clearly perturbed, at least to Karl’s eye. He’d forgotten his stuff, his hoodie, his phone, his planner and other things that had been here with “his glasses,” the ones he’d put on before the two Zs had pranked him coming out of the bathroom after washing off the day’s makeup and presumably ditching his contacts. Lord knew the kid’d been complaining about needing to order new ones, how the ones he had in were old, how he just hadn’t had time and was trying to make the ones he had stretch, etc., etc.. And now in the hullaballoo of those two embarrassing him, he’d forgotten his stuff, things he’d presumably need to get ready for work in the morning.

It was as good a reason as any to follow, and lord knew he wanted any excuse. He grabbed up the things, leveled another Kiril-style glare (or was it Lord Vaako? He pretty much had only one or two evil death glares, they pretty much worked for all of his bad guys) at Zoe and Zach, who were still standing around, and went after Chris.

\--

He didn’t bother to knock, just barged into Chris’ trailer with his usual “Pine,” then an explanatory “You left your shit on the set, figured I’d save you a trip,” then stopped talking because Chris was sitting on his couch with a plastic bag full of ice on his ankle and another one on his wrist because of course he’d probably landed hard on that, too, trying to brace himself when he fell.

Chris huffed a laugh, said “I don’t need another trip today, no,” jerked his chin at the counter just inside the door, and said “you can just put the stuff there, thanks.”

Karl did as he was asked, then went over, because, well—he wanted to, damnit.

“Lemme see,” he mumbled, lifting the ice, and it could’ve been worse, but Chris’ ankle _was_ swollen, though it didn’t seem bruised, just red from the ice—the same seemed to be true for his wrist.

“It’ll be fine,” Chris said. “I’m just gonna chill out for a little bit more,” he said, patting Karl’s arm in that friendly, affectionate way that he had, making a joke of it all, like it all was so fucking funny, “and everything’ll be hunky-dory come morning.”

“You could’ve been really hurt. J.J.’s going to be pissed when he finds out,” Karl growled, because pranking was one thing, not like he hadn’t done his fair share with this crew, but if Chris was really as blind as a bat without his glasses as Zach and Zoe knew that, it wasn’t the kind of prank that was funny at all. You didn’t fuck with someone’s physical safety like that—he could’ve broken something as easily as a just a small sprain.

“JJ does not need to know,” and Chris was staring at Karl, those always-startling blue eyes of his half fierce-looking, half-pleading.

Later on, Karl would mull over why he agreed. Maybe it was the residual warmth of Chris’ hand on Karl’s arm, maybe it was the way Chris, unlike Karl, had been so fucking gracious when it was clear Zoe and Zach realized that they’d gone too far despite how embarrassed he’d been—or maybe, just maybe it was just the fact that Karl was a stupid fool with a crush on his younger co-star. The pleading look, combined with the ugly black coke-bottle glasses was too much to bear, and he couldn’t stand whatever worried look would appear on Chris’ face if Karl insisted on getting the “two Zs” in trouble.

“Fine,” he half-grunted, “but I’m still not leaving you around those morons alone, they’re a damned hazard to health and welfare of all sane, respectable persons.”

Chris snorted and smiled, then patted Karl once on the shoulder. “Who’s a grumpy papa bear, hunh?” He gripped Karl once, hard, on the same shoulder, then gave him a bit of a shove. “Well, at least make yourself useful and order some pizza. Man. I am starved, and I’m sure craft services is probably closed.”

Karl felt himself smile and got up to go get Chris’ phone. Of course, his contacts list had an entry for “Pizza,” presumably his favorite place. He checked the small fridge, saw that there was plenty of Diet Coke, that Hollywood staple, and decided that would probably do much as he’d personally far rather a beer.

When he finished making the call, he turned back to find that Chris had shifted a bit and propped his foot on the coffee table. More importantly though, the siren call of the opening notes of Halo were chiming from the games console.

“Mr. Pine,” he said, setting the phone down, as Chris patted the couch and pulled the other controller out from between the seat cushions. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Chris snorted and chucked the controller at Karl. “Dude. You just wish, and anyway, get your quotes straight. Now sit your ass down so I can kick it before the pizza gets here.”

\--

He later learned that Chris’ glasses were different from Zach’s in at least one crucial way. He had coke-bottle lenses and ugly black frames not because he was trying for hip but because he had about seven pair. Karl’d said something to uncomplimentary effect after Chris had broken yet another damned pair, and offered to go shopping with Chris the next time he needed replacements if he was _that_ blind when he was shopping.

“Nah, they’re just cheaper this way,” he’d said, and now, Karl could see the reason in that as Chris turned a faint pink and looked sheepish as he rolled over, flailing, one morning, off of Karl’s couch, and managed to smash the pair that he’d left on the table as he tried to grab onto something for balance and instead clunked his head on the floor. The kid had absolutely no sense of direction or balance when he wasn’t wearing contacts or specs—it would be truly amazing if it wasn’t also more than a little alarming. “There’s another pair, maybe two, in the glove compartment out in the car. Either that or the armrest?” He patted the top of Karl’s foot like it was an uncertain dog that needed a firm soothing or something.

He blinked, squinting, red-eyed and bleary, short hair going in at least five directions as he sat in his boxers and precisely naught else as he looked up at Karl. Seeing as Karl had been the one to wake him with an “Oi, Pine, you want breakfast?” his shout earning the surprised startle-flail-fall-glasses-breaking reaction, a trip outside to Chris’ car was the least he could do.

It was at least some consolation that Chris was so blind and astigmatic that he couldn’t see Karl’s cock reacting to the fact that, well, Chris was so fucking … cute … when he was all bleary first thing in the morning, that and the fact that he was kind of petting Karl’s foot. It kind of made Karl want to wrestle him to the floor and …

Extra glasses. He had a task. He could complete it. And think about boner deflaters while he was at it.

\--

“What’s he doing?” he whispered to Simon. Chris was currently on all fours with Zoe and Bruce on the main set of the Enterprise bridge, and while it seemed fairly obvious, he might as well ask.

“Lost one of his contacts.”

Those Captain Kirk pants left absolutely nothing to Karl’s imagination, hugging every muscle in Chris’ ass, and just, Holy Fuck Jesus. He’d better get over there and help before he got caught ogling or something.

“You wink too hard at someone and dislodge your contact again?” Karl grumbled, and Chris blinked and looked up as Karl assumed the contact-looking position, slightly opposite his good friend and unholy distraction.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that leering at Uhura takes a lot of intense, actorly focus, and the air on this set’s really dry,” Chris said with a smile, but then went back to looking down at the floor, one eye closed as he peered at the grey carpet. Bruce and Zoe seemed to be having no luck, and Karl, after about maybe five minutes, said “Pine, I don’t think it wants to be found.”

Chris sighed and knelt up, wiping his hands on the fabric straining over his long, lean runner’s thighs. Karl knew. He’d gone running with Chris more than once on top of the occasional Halo or GTA night with too many beers, leading to Chris camped out on Karl’s sofa or vice versa, thereafter leading to the inevitable next-morning sight of Chris in his boxers. Nathan Fillion was going to have to give up the nickname “Captain Tightpants” after this movie came out, because Chris’ pants were practically sewn on and Karl was having a harder and harder time keeping his boner on set from becoming a walking distraction.

They all made their way up to standing and Chris and Karl walked back to their trailers, Chris carefully keeping one eye closed the whole way. Karl resisted the urge to take hold of his arm-- it wasn’t like Chris was some delicate flower, and satisfied himself with looking back over his shoulder to make sure Chris hadn’t tripped up the stairs to his own trailer or something. He was just in time to hear the crash and the “Ow, damnit!” as the door rattled a little.

Maybe he should have held Chris’ arm after all.

\--

“What’d you do?”

Chris was sprawled on the floor over a big cardboard box.

“Somebody just left this here instead of on the perfectly good fucking table, and now I’ve lost my other damned contact,” Chris swore.

Karl didn’t totally snicker, but it was kind of funny.

“Shut up. I’m having a lousy, no good, really bad day. You’re not allowed to be laughing at me,” Chris pouted, turning over to sit on his ass and feebly kick the box out of the way. Karl looked for a few minutes, but didn’t see the contact anywhere—it probably went under the stove and he said so to Chris.

Karl looked down at the box, looked at the address, then laughed some more. “It’s your contact lens order.”

At that, Chris did smile, but didn’t try to get up, so Karl picked the box up and set it up on the table. Chris lay back on the ground and said “I’m going to swoon here while you fix me some contacts, because I don’t have any glasses left in the car. I’ve got an order in at the shop, but they’re not going to be ready ‘til Monday.”

At that, Karl looked back over his shoulder. Chris’ shirt had ridden up, exposing the flat, pale skin of his stomach. The kid didn’t have a six pack, but he was taut, that was for sure.

“Well then, I guess I arrived just in time.”

Chris snorted, said “Sir Karl, to the rescue,” and put his hand to his forehead, mock-swooning.

“Did you really break the rest of your glasses?”

Chris nodded, and Karl turned his attention back to opening the box as Chris’ voice murmured up from the floor. It was surprisingly homey, here in the trailer. “Mmm. Broke a pair at the beach playing Frisbee with John and Simon and all of their kids, and then Zoe elbowed me in the face when we went shopping for shoes for some party she had to go to, so that totally wasn’t my fault but still, and then I forget about how I broke the third set and the fourth one, I dunno, an audition or something…”

Karl opened the box, pulled out some popcorn, and looked at the order paperwork.

“Umm.” He read it to Chris, since by now he was well acquainted with Chris’ barmy prescription.

“That’s the wrong one.” Chris frowned from the floor, then rolled over and made his squinting way over.

“Maybe they printed it wrong,” Karl said, then popped open one of the packets. Chris got up, washed his hands, came back and took the packet by feel, popping the contacts in and settling them in before opening his eyes.

“No,” he said flatly. “It’s just wrong, they screwed it up, it’s the wrong damned prescription. Fuck.”

He pulled them out and put them back in the case, more by feel than anything else. Karl, meanwhile, dialed the number on the order form and started punching in numbers to get to the operator, then handed the phone over to Chris, who took it and calmly—way more calmly than Karl would—explained that they’d sent the wrong strength and he needed a new order sent.

Only once it was clear that they weren’t going to send it express—and that Chris wasn’t going to put up a fuss—did Karl take the phone.

“Look. You’re talking to Chris Pine. Do you know who he is? He’s Captain Kirk in the new Star Trek movie, the one that’s going to make lots of big fucking money. So I suggest that you fix your mistake, especially since you’ve had his prescription on file for years, and get someone on a damned bike or a cab or a pony or whatthefuckever to his house with the right order no later than noontime tomorrow, because if your little mistake sets back production on a Paramount movie, I don’t think J.J. Abrams, yeah, the guy who makes Lost, you know, that big fucking TV show, well, I don’t think he’s going to be too fucking happy.”

The customer service rep was very sorry and would make sure that Chris had the right contacts tomorrow. She confirmed Chris’ address and the way the new shipment would be delivered. She apologized once again, and then gave Karl her name and the name of her manager and a confirmation number for the service call “In case everything doesn’t work out just peachy tomorrow,” as Karl put it oh-so-sarcastically.

He snapped Chris’ phone shut, then tossed the bad contacts back in the box.

“Well, come on, Squinty,” he said, to a Chris who looked rather perplexed. “You want to get changed before I drive you home, or is that too much of a hazard in the small confines of the trailer?”

Chris opened his mouth to say something, then shut it before finally speaking. “I think I can manage.”

He got up, patted Karl once on the shoulder, his “thanks” sounding kind of embarrassed, and went back to the small bedroom, shutting the door. Karl could hear the drawers open and close, the sound of things rustling, and sternly told himself not to think about Chris getting undressed, about Chris without his shirt on, about Chris in only his boxers, about Chris in no clothing at all…

When Chris came back out, he had a feeling he’d called Karl’s name more than once before he re-caught Karl’s attention. “All set,” he said, standing in his standard ensemble of white t-shirt, grey cardigan sweater and jeans. If he had on one grey sock, one black, at least his shoes matched. “And I didn’t fall over once,” he smirked proudly in Karl’s general direction before heading toward the door of the trailer. He promptly whacked his head on the slightly-cracked open cabinet door over the sink, the one Karl’d seen had been open and knew he should have just closed.

Maybe in the larger scope of things, it wasn’t wise, but Karl was up in a flash, one hand on Chris’ arm and damned if he was going to let go.

\--

“You don’t have to stay.”

“You’ll burn the house down.”

“I was going to order a pizza.”

“And break your damned neck trying to answer the door and probably have too much to drink and pass out from alcohol poisoning.”

“Diet Coke only, I promise,” Chris said from his cross-legged place on the couch, and then, so help him, he made some signal that presumably went along with “Scout’s honor.” These Yanks and their stupid kid’s clubs.

“Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re a walking disaster without your glasses and if someone else doesn’t stay with you you’re going to get hurt.”

Chris shifted, and tucked his legs under himself more securely. Christ in a handbasket to hell, how was he so bendy? It did not inspire immaculate, platonic thoughts.

“I can call Katie, you don’t have to stay. Or Zach.”

Karl hunched where he sat on the arm of the couch and practically snarled. “Your sister’s lovely but she’s a flake and Zach’d leave the minute some boy he’s been chasing gives him a call and you’d totally let him.” He knew Chris couldn’t see it, most likely, but he jabbed his finger for emphasis.

Chris squinted at him and patted Karl’s knee soothingly, looking both woeful and somehow a little bit angry. “I’ll make you a deal, it’s still early. You stay until the pizza gets here, and then I promise I’ll go right to bed and stay put where I can’t break anything like the klutz that I am until tomorrow when my contacts get here. That way you don’t have to babysit and you can have a normal Friday night off. And I’ll call you when the contacts arrive, and you can come back over then. Okay?”

Karl countered with what he thought was a pretty good argument. “How are you going to dial your phone if you can’t see?”

Chris’ expression turned mulish as he arched his hips up in his very tight jeans and fished out his phone, then felt for his call button and said “Call Karl Urban.” In his back pocket, Karl’s phone started to buzz.

Chris squinted at him with a scowl on his face. “I use speakerphone in the car. I’m not a complete douche when I drive, and despite appearances, I’m not completely inept.”

Throughout the phone fishing confrontation, Chris’ other hand had remained on Karl’s knee, something Karl hadn’t minded at all, even as his mouth went totally dry at the little hip-bendy-stretchy phone getting thing Chris had just done.

Chris had always been tactile—he was touchy with all of the cast, but Karl liked to think he was especially touchy with Karl because they were good friends. He tried to sublimate, as best as he could, the rest of the pleasured reaction he had that wasn’t platonic whenever Chris touched him. Chris though, seemed to realize that he’d left his hand on Karl’s knee for a while and pulled it away, then hit the disconnect button, again moving by feel. Karl’s back pocket stopped its vibration, and Karl had the feeling that something important had just happened, something he’d missed.

“Call pizza,” Chris said, then put the phone up to his ear and called in his order, pulling one knee up under his chin as he called in their usual, pepperoni, olive and sausage, then asked for an extra plain sausage.

Did Chris not like pepperoni?

\--

When the pizza arrived, Karl let the guy in and paid him, then returned to Chris’ kitchen. Chris had already taken hold of Karl’s arm to navigate the couch, coffee table and walls, then sat and stared off into space once he’d folded himself up onto a stool on his island. Slight neat freak that he was, Chris tended to insist they actually eat in the kitchen since he didn’t want food all over his couch or his rugs.

“Do you not like pepperoni or olives?” he asked once Chris ate his third slice, but didn’t go for a fourth. Chris had asked him to put the second pizza right into the fridge.

“No, I like them just fine,” Chris said, getting up and tossing his plate and his napkin by dint of holding onto the island until he found the trash can at the end. As if that wasn’t reason enough for Karl to stay. “I just like plain sausage better first thing in the morning.” He washed his hands at the sink, his “Why?” aimed at the wall.

Since Karl’s answer would have been an uncertain, feeble“I was just wondering if I’d been imposing my taste on you and never noticed the things that you liked and now I feel guilty,” he grunted and said “Curious, that’s all.”

Chris turned around, took one step too many, and walked right into the sharp edge of the island, hitting himself right at the beltline. He bit his lip, but didn’t say anything out loud at all, and when Karl got up to go over, Chris waved him off.

“I’m fine,” he said, even as Karl said “that’s going to bruise,” and went for the freezer as Chris said “it won’t.”

Karl reached for an ice tray and said “everything bruises on you, of course it’s going to, Chris,” just as Chris’ hand closed hard over his wrist. “Leave it alone, I’ve already done the underwear scene, it’s not going to matter. I’m fine, Karl, you don’t have to play nanny, I’m just going to go to bed and you can get on with your night.”

Karl turned to look at his friend and the anger all over his face. Chris eyes’ weren’t in focus, of course, but they were deep blue with anger and some other emotion, and his cheeks were bright pink with what Karl guessed was embarrassment. “I don’t have other plans, Chris,” he said, as gently as possible, but Chris’ hand on his wrist tightened further before he let go.

“That’s not the point. You could go out, call up some friends, do something fun. What are we going to do? Watch a movie? Play video games? Read? Oh, wait, nope, none of those. I know, let’s keep Chris from accidentally killing himself because he’s such a walking disaster that poor Karl’s had to appoint himself keeper so the other mean kids don’t play rude tricks that might get him hurt and fuck up production.”

Between the bitterness in his voice and this-- something fleeting-- that passed over Chris’ face—just as he patted Karl once on the arm and said “You’re a good friend, Karl, but you don’t have to stay,”—but unlike his vision, that _expression_ was totally focused. Karl recognized that something fleeting. He got it this time, since it was the same expression he sometimes caught in the rearview mirror when he was driving someplace with Chris, the one that made him wonder why Chris or someone in the cast or some tabloid reporter hadn’t accused him aloud of what he’d known pretty much from day one.

He grabbed Chris by the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, determined to re-make the connection that Chris had broken when he’d hung up that phone, making that rhetorical point that Karl had just … missed.

When he was done licking the spice of the pepperoni and the aspartame of the soda out of Chris’ mouth, when he’d gotten down to the essence of Chris—teeth and tongue and lips and his arms and legs and leaner, strong body pressing Karl back into the fridge, when they both parted for air—he still had a grip on Chris’ t-shirt and the thing would probably never be the right shape again.

“Maybe I want to stay, yeah?” he said, and Chris blinked, eyes suddenly wide like he was seeing Karl for the first time in a while, and saw something there that he wanted equally, too. This close, he could focus-- and smiling, he nodded, then let Karl steer them both to the bedroom.

\--

“Please tell me you’ve done this before.”

Karl had to pause for a moment before answering—“Yeah. Been a while, though.” This close to Chris’ face, the small freckles dotting his nose, the small splashes of gold in his very blue iris, the way his pupils contracted as he leant in to nose and suck along the line of Karl’s jaw, Chris’ voice sounded a little bit different—lower, more husky.

“You?”

Chris chuckled. “Dude. I went to Berkeley with a B.A. in English. I practically minored in bi.”

Karl couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from him—ridiculous relief, a little hysterical, more than a little disbelief that this was actually happening, and Chris leaned back in and kissed him, his tongue licking away at the inside of his mouth as Karl couldn’t quite yet stop chuckling. It didn’t seem to bother Chris at all—instead, he sort of half-straddled Karl, kissing and running his hands all over Karl’s arms and face, like he just couldn’t stop touching, didn’t want to, wouldn’t be able to if someone told him he had to or maybe he’d die. He’d run his hands through Karl’s hair, fingers kneading and stroking his scalp, petting, massaging practically, and then he’d be scratching his way over Karl’s shoulders and up under his shirt which reminded Karl suddenly—

He flipped Chris onto his back.

“Too many clothes on,” he managed, tugging the now-ruined t-shirt and sweater up over Chris’ head, the tops going flying somewhere, it didn’t much matter. Chris pushed up on his elbows, raked his blunt nails up under Karl’s button-down shirt. Karl took the hint, popped enough of the buttons all open, then tugged the shirt off. Let it not be said he wasn’t obliging. At some points between the kitchen and bedroom, they’d already lost shoes, somehow lost socks, and Chris’ bare toes, of all things, were doing this stroking thing to the arch of one of Karl’s feet, kind of massagey, and it went straight to his cock, surprising a groan out of him.

Chris smiled, his eyes still unfocused. His smirk was more than a little bit evil, but in all the best ways. Two could play at that game. Just because it had been a while didn’t mean Karl didn’t know what he was doing. Straddling Chris’ hips, he could feel the hard line of Chris’ cock under his ass. He ground down a bit, and Chris groaned, hands scrabbling to find Karl’s skin, something to hold on to.

He found Karl’s pants, dug in those long fingers of his, clawing and crablike and warm, touch-always-welcome, making their way to the button. “Off. I want all of you,” he said, raspy, his hands not having much luck with the fastenings.

The expression on Chris’ face was so very intent—the heat of his hands and milk-musk smell of his skin just right there, all of it—and Karl wanted too, so he scrambled off, scrambled out of his pants even as Chris thrust his hips up on the bed and started to undo his own, pushing his jeans and boxers out of the way in another display of _ooh, bendy_ that had Karl transfixed for a moment before he reminded himself.

_You could be doing something about that yourself, you absolute moron._

“Where?” Karl breathed out, making a move for the bedside, figuring Chris was like most guys, and yeah, there it was, just as Chris said “in the drawer,” turning and flailing blindly toward the edge of the bed.

“No, I’ve got it,” Karl answered, one hand sliding up Chris’ side, smooth, muscled, pale, practically hairless—and tugged out the condoms and lube. There’d be time to talk about prior partners and “clean” and all of that stuff sometime—later—right now, this was enough, would be enough, had to be, because he couldn’t wait.

“Want you now,” Chris demanded, grabbing his arm, pulling him down, their mouths clashing as his hands clamped and grabbed hard into Karl’s skin, the smooth heat of him against Karl’s hairier body a contrast that wasn’t as startling as the strength of his arms and legs pulling Karl close, pulling Karl tight, touching him everywhere, and why the hell not when he could barely see? Their cocks bumped together, Chris’ legs tangled and slid against his, rubbing their bodies together for maximum contact as the heat and friction increased.

Karl groaned as their cocks came into contact again, as Chris’ hand wrapped around them and started to pump—slowly, not too fast—as he blinked hazy, nearly all-pupiled eyes in Karl’s general direction and graveled out “want you inside me, Karl. Now.”

He could do this—and did, his hands only shaking a little as he pulled away just enough to squirt some of the lube onto his hands, slide one finger slowly inside Chris while he started to jack his dick with the other. Chris’ “ah,” his squirm back and forth to take in more of Karl’s finger, the way that he writhed as the room began to get dark—he wanted to turn on the lights, but fair was only fair and it wasn’t like Chris could really see what was going on either. Wasn’t like Karl couldn’t do this by feel—wasn’t like this wasn’t about how he _felt_ in the end anyway.

“More,” Chris breathed out, raspy, demanding, his hand on Karl’s wrist pumping Chris’ cock speeding the pace, and in the dimming late light he was a pale, writhing blur, gasping as Karl added a second and then a third finger, his hips arching up as he spurted onto himself and Karl’s fingers when Karl found that hard nodule and started to rub it with his fingers as he worked Chris even more open. His gasp of release was half-strangled, a stuttered, “K-kk-arl,” and he fell loose to the bed, legs flopping open as his muscles relaxed and Karl grabbed for the condom, sheathed and slicked himself up, surged in and pulled Chris up by those oh-so-bendy hips until Chris gasped again as Karl bottomed out all at once.

“F-ffuck,” he stuttered, half-bellowed, the heat and tightness incredible, and Chris’ shaking thighs clamped around him somehow, pulled him in a bit further until he could almost feel their bones grind together.

Chris’ hands found his hips, grabbed his ass, dug in with blunt nails, and one hand trailed up Karl’s spine, cupping the backs of his shoulders, urging his movement. It was dark now, and all he had now was those hands and Chris’ sounds and their bodies for guidance, but Chris’ hand on his ass pulled him forward a bit—and he moved. They moved.

He didn’t know how long they moved—it was hard to tell in the darkness, and everything seemed a bit hazy, more than a little surreal, but he fell forward because he had to be closer, to mouth at more skin, to mumble more words that maybe were nonsense and maybe were more sense than he’d made in a while.  It was hard to tell in the darkness, though when he came and Chris sparked with him just a few moments later, it seemed like there was some kind of flash and he could see, for a moment, Chris smiling and looking right at him as Karl kissed him and chanted out “oh, fuck, need you, need you, Jesus, fuck, love you,” before everything went sparkling white.

In the aftermath—glow—he fumbled his way in the dark to the bathroom, Chris right behind him, a quick hot shower getting off the worst of the mess, and they fell back into bed, utterly tired and sated, limbs tangled and Karl not bothering at all about wet spots or any of that.

When the door buzzed at 9am the next morning, he struggled out of Chris’ octopus arms and into his pants, found some clothes for Chris from the wreckage strewn on the floor, and decided that t-shirts were probably a good idea if they didn’t want to start any rumors.

The courier with the contacts had to wait while Karl opened the box and Chris tried on the lenses, blinking them into focus. He looked at the order paper, then up at Karl, giving him a secretive smile.

“I see you,” he said. He signed off on the delivery, and the courier left right away.

As soon as the door closed, Chris locked it and stalked over to Karl.

“And now I want to see more of you,” he said, a wicked smile on his face. He peeled his t-shirt off where he stood, then reached for Karl’s, his eyes completely in focus and his expression avid and completely intent. His hands slid up over Karl’s skin, the cotton slithering away, and Karl raised his arms, letting Chris have his way.

“Don’t let me detract from your focus,” he said, once the shirt hit the floor.

Chris laughed, smacked his ass, and chased him all the way back to the bedroom.  



End file.
